Better Be Slytherin!

He swallowed thickly. 'I captured some of their memories. Would you like to see what they have done to your Golden Boy?'

Dumbledore waved a hand as if batting away a fly. 'That will not be necessary. You will keep a good eye on him, I'm sure. I know how protective you are of your snakes.'

Severus gave him a thin smile and rose. This meeting was done, so far as he was concerned. 'Very well. Good evening, Headmaster.'

'Good evening, Severus.'

Rather than look in on the boy – and the Baron, too, no doubt – Severus retreated to the comfort of his quarters and a brand new bottle of firewhiskey. He cracked the seal on the bottle, thinking uncharitable thoughts about the Headmaster, who he had counted as a friend for more than a decade. And more than a friend, a mentor, a guiding hand . . .

Yet, Severus knew that Albus' ambivalence about Potter's plight was nothing new. Albus had, for many years, shunted to the side those issues he did not want to face, as though, if he ignored them, they would simply go away. Often times, for instance, it was the hard cases that ended up in Slytherin, for one reason or another. Those children who had managed to get through their first eleven years with less than the requisite amount of love or caring, or existed on more than their fair share of violence, often found companionship and loyalty among their peers in the House of the Snake. Severus' first rule, laid down on First Night for years now, ensured that.

And Albus, whatever rationale he used to delude himself behind those bright blue eyes, just turned his back in essence. Oh he said he did not wish to interfere in House issues, or get in the way where Severus was obviously far more skilled and already involved, but the truth was, he just did not want to acknowledge the problems so many of these children faced at home, because they were Slytherin problems.

Severus knocked back two fingers of the burning liquid, and poured another glass before he sank in front of the fire and watched the flames flicker and cast orange shadows in his rooms. He had hoped, despite all evidence to the contrary, that Albus would change his stance for Potter. But it was not to be.

Very well, then. As Albus was leaving the boy completely in Severus' hands, then Severus would take him up on the offer of autonomy. Completely.

The next night was Thursday, and after a perfectly horrid day of classes in which no fewer than three cauldrons exploded and a dozen detentions were awarded, Severus, ostensibly grading papers, waited impatiently in his office for the Potter Brat to arrive. Funny how, until this moment, when the Brat was more than a quarter hour late for his last night of official detention, Severus had gone a full twenty-four hours or more without thinking of him as The Brat.

Shaking off the fit of sentimentality, as it would do neither of them any good, Severus made numerous more red marks on the essay in front of him and wondered where in blue blazes the boy was now. Had he gotten into another literally bloody mess from which he would require rescue and copious amounts of healing? Perhaps he was suffering a fit of pique after Severus' foray into his mind several nights ago? Or maybe he decided he was too good for detentions after all, blowing off the punishment just like his father would have?

Severus had to admit, the last seemed unlikely, as Potter had, thus far, shown remarkable adherence to the detention schedule until now. It was likewise unlikely the Brat had forgotten the session altogether . . . although, it was possible he had assumed he was finished with them now, since he'd been given a week's detention, starting last Thursday, and thus he would have been done last night, Wednesday. But they had discussed the fact of his having missed Saturday, due to his being indisposed, had they not?

Regardless, Severus expected him to be here, and had even set out a crate of dead toads for him to section and remove the organs from, and he was not one who enjoyed being kept waiting.

When it reached half past seven, Severus decided, in lieu of becoming increasingly frustrated, that perhaps the Baron could clarify the matter, and so he called for the ghost to pay him a visit, if he was willing.

It was another few minutes before the Bloody Baron drifted through the wall into his office and hovered by the door. 'You rang?'

Severus looked up from his marking, as he would not have for a student, and scowled. 'Where is the Potter boy?'

'I should know because . . .'

'Because you saw him last. Did he say anything to you about tonight?'

'Perhaps.'

'Well?'

'Well, what?'

'Don't you play games with me,' Severus snarled. 'What did the boy tell you?'

'Are you worried about him?'

Severus was on his feet, giving the ghost his best menacing glare. 'Shouldn't I be? The boy was nearly killed in this dungeon. If I hadn't got to him in time—'

'But you did. And yes, he said many things to me last night. Most notable was a translation of the Parseltongue from the night of the attack.'

That halted Severus, briefly. He relaxed his stance somewhat. 'What was it then?'

The ghost smirked at him. 'Do you want to know that, or what he told me about this evening?'

'Oh, for goodness sake. Just give me the damned translation.'

'Language, Severus Snape. You're sounding just like a school boy I know.'

Severus sneered. 'Would it help if I said please?'

'It might at that.' The Bloody Baron smiled, showing teeth. 'In between bouts of angst and anger over your treatment of him the night before last, the boy translated the Parseltongue thusly: 'There has to be an end to it, an end to this half life,' and, 'I did not return to be disobeyed by a lesser servant,' and, 'You are weak, too weak; I need another to sustain me. Bring me his blood.' Apparently he said other things as well, but Harry Potter claims they were variations of the same.'